#cw mutilation

But after he won Secret life, he had a lot more. He got stabbed, shot at, mauled my dogs, burned, exploded, and more.

Because of them, he's blind in one eye because of the explosion, and his face is scarred. He can't fully move his shoulder, and he has constant chronic pain.

Normally, he doesn't care about his scars. Why would he, when they're from accidents and shenanigans, and they barely affect him. But these ones. They carry dark memories. Worse than the bites and scratches from his childhood he always hides. These ones, they haunt him. And he can't hide these, and everybody knows where they're from, even the people who were never in the games, and the people who can't remember them.

He's used to pity, but with these, any sympathy feels like burning acid pouring straight into his lungs. He doesn't want pity, not for these scars, not when he goes back to Secret life every time he sleeps, because he never actually finished the game, so of course they'll keep dragging him there until he loses his final life.

The scars taint his life, even though he doesn't normally care about the scars covering him, even though he was so unbothered he named himself after them. He was even proud of some of them, telling stories happily about the mischief that caused them. But these ones were a dark shadow that choked him with the memories and the horrors every time he sees himself.

He hates his scars.

All that's left now is a thick blanket of scar tissue, gashes and cuts from when his wings were cut out and his back stitched back together. Finer raised lined from the subsequent beatings in places mean only for a mate. All of it often tight and irritated from neglect.

You know he doesn't have wings anymore, that his back is more of store of trauma than sensitivity with a lover.

Still, you had begged so sweetly for ghost to let you take care of him. Reassuring "you don't have to feel anything, si. I just...I worry about you."

After a warm meal and time spent cuddling in the nest, you roll simon onto his stomach and pull you the creams and ointments you bought months ago.

"Let me know if you want to stop." You remind, scooping some of the cream out with three fingers. You let it warm in your palm.

The first touch had ghost flinching, shoulders tucked to ears and a warning-chirp barely suppressed. Calm, you work in slow circles.

Always gentle, always deliberate. Nothing that can be misconstrued as anything similar to what he did to your simon.

"Doing good for me." Whispered into the dark, finally working up to his shoulders and pressing into the valley of his spine. The sudden, low croon almost makes you freeze. You hear that sound so rarely you almost don't recognize it.

Pleasure. His back may not be as sensitive as it was, but clearly having you touch it is doing something to ghost. His muscles contract in what would have been spreading wings, hips subtly rocking into the pillows and blankets.

"Good boy, simon, doing so well..." you know he's aware of your realization, but you don't want him to stop those sweet little chirps.

Moving from one cream to the next, you focus on treating the scar tissue as best you can, only pausing for a moment when his whole body seizes in an orgasm. Even cooing when he whines and flutters as the last ointment, overstimulated in just the right way.

Ghost can't stand to live without his wings, can't cope with everything roba took most days.

a whole ring of it was gone, leaving part of my tibia completely exposed (I had no fibula for some reason)

None of the Hermits know why.

Neither do they know why he shuts down at the sound of balloons popping, a sound just a few shades too close to gunfire. They don't know why that sound makes the scars across his back and chest pulse in rememberance

Arctic kitsune were good game, after all. And legality never stopped poachers before.

All the other Hermits(from experience) is to not throw surprise parties for Etho. The last time it happened, the kitsune had a panic attack so full they weren't sure he fully stopped until days later, and he was messed up for weeks.

Of course, they won't ask why. The blanket rule of Hermitcraft is to never, ever pressure people about their pasts. Every single one of them was running from something, after all.

For Etho, that was always from the hunters.

The sound of that cursed specialty rifle they used.

The smell of the backs of their trucks and the warmth of their breath.

The feeling of their blades and cigarettes in his skin, leaving marks on his body and his mind.

The feeling of rugburn from the ropes they tied him in.

The sickly bittersweet scent of their labs and chemicals.

The severed ends of several of his tails, with one chopped nearly clean off.

The iron tang of his own blood.

The scar over his eye and the one across his mouth that he hid under his mask.

Worst of all, the screams of his family when they were taken by them.

And he would never be fully free.

:3

-peskybirdOnyx

Skilled beyond your peers, people whisper about you in the hallways, about your scores and reputation. Everyone knows that you'll be joining the 141 soon, it's obvious by the way the team lingers around you and all the missions you tag along with them on.

It's unfortunate that your skills have put you on ghosts radar. A cute thing that has so much fight, so much drive. He can't stand the idea of you going out on the field and getting shot by some nobody soldier, of losing you too soon. He wants to sink his teeth into you until syrup-blood fills his mouth.

On the battlefield, no one pays much attention to where the bullet came from.

In ghosts sniper perch, he lines up his shot and takes out your kneecaps. A career ending injury.

In my headcanon, a player's communicator is absolutely vital, properly attached to their left forearm. They control cotmmunication, respawn, travel through worlds, are the easiest way to access or change player code, and even identity or player status. Because of this, they, and player code, need to be serviced at least one a year, and after joining a new world.

This is often a little uncomfortable, painful, or scary, particularly for players with unconventional or altered code (Etho, Doc, Joe, for instance), but it's pretty much the equivalent of going to the dentist.

Scar cannot handle it.

In the past, he's made himself physically sick with worry, had numerous panic attacks, attacked Xisuma, ran away, or just hidden for days and days until the other hermits relent. More recently, he's got a little better, but needs strong painkillers, comfortable surroundings, something to attack over himself or another hermit, and an emotional support Cub to hug and comfort him every time, and it takes about an hour to get this all ready and calm his nerves enough. In the worst case scenario, he's had to be fully sedated as well.

Cub's the only hermit who knows why -- even Xisuma hasn't been told, but figured out his communicator isn't his original.

What happened was, back in TCD, Scar was attacked by Vex hunters, who very painfully stripped the parts of his communicator, and cut off his vex wings, essentially leaving Scar for dead.

He managed to (shoddily) replace the communicator later, and regrew his wings (with Cub's help, but the trauma remains. Even touching his wings or communicator is an absolute no-go, Cub included.

He might tell more people at some point, but for now it's between him and Cub.